Locked In
by DigitallyAlteredHeart
Summary: Spencer wakes in a hospital room with no recollection of any events beforehand. Is it all a conspiracy? Perhaps something is really wrong!
1. Chapter 1

**Note: **This was originally posted on MoreHeatThanAche's profile (it's since been taken down) and because I loved the story so much and she wasn't writing it anymore she, along with her co-writers, agreed to let me continue it. The first 5 chapters are revises of the original works, the rest after that is my own creation. I was allowed to change the title but I couldn't bring myself to do it because that wasn't fair. I hope you like what I do with it and yeah, yay!

* * *

_(Breathe)_

_(It's hard to breathe)_

_(Just keep breathing)_

_(My chest feels tight)_

_(Don't worry, you'll be just fine)_

Slowly almost timidly Spencer Reid opened his eyes, only to close them a second later as a bright overhead light shone down on him. His head throbbed painfully as he tried to form the memories he so desperately needed. They weren't coming though, instead all he could think about was the throbbing in his temples and how exceedingly dry his mouth had become. Blinking slightly, Spencer became awake of the plastic tube that stopped his left arm from moving freely. Panicking, his eyes growing wide before squeezing them shut again as though to erase the image.

No memories of what had happened to him were coming to mind, no recollection of any events. Nothing. For the first time in his life, his mind was a blank canvas which both confused and scared him. Almost painfully he tried to get his brain in motion; it was slow and sluggish, much like a machine that hadn't been used in sometime and needed a good dose oil. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, far from it, it was a sticky feeling that he willed away.

What did he know? That was the next thing he tried to figure out. He was lying down, a bed with crisp white sheets. Grasping them slightly in his hands. Starched, thick, cotton sheets; a hospital most likely. The drip in his arm suggested he was ill. Spencer certainly felt ill, other than the headache his bones also felt heavy, like they were being weighed down with something. His muscles ached as though he had just done several hours running uphill. Tentatively opening his eyes again, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the glaring light, he scanned the room quickly. White with a cold feeling. Empty except for the bed, a single chair in the corner and a bedside table with a plastic cup. The only sourced of colour was the red straw protruding from the cup.

Where where his things. Books? If there was one thing Spencer was never without, it was a book. The light from the window (plastic, not glass no doubt) suggested it was early morning, but what time of year was it. Month, day, week, minute, second. Anything would suffice to Spencer to give him some indication that this wasn't some bizarre dream. It sure felt like it, like everything had suddenly rushed at him. Again studying the window, he couldn't see anything out of it. Just sky, a clear blue sky. Possible early summer then. Why couldn't he remember. Everything was quiet, no birds, no traffic. Just silence, it was both peaceful and oddly strange at the same time. Life, it was never this quiet. Never.

Lying still, Spencer let out a long shallow breath. Everything was fuzzy, strange and confusing to the point that it made him want to cry. Never had any situation he'd be in made him feel like that, so overwhelmed by a sense of bewilderment that it terrified him. It was never like this before; he was Spencer Reid, genius mind of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit. It just didn't make sense. Closing his eyes again, Spencer willed himself to wake up. To force his mind into waking him up from what could only be called a dream, none of it would be real. He'd open his eyes in a moments, safe inside his apartment. It didn't happen though, he didn't wake up. He jumped slightly when the door to his room clicked open softly. Spencer glanced wearily at the nurse who entered the room.

"Hello Spencer," the nurse said. "Nice to see you awake. We all thought you'd never wake up."

Nice. Such a bland, meaningless word, used when nothing else could come to mind. Even in his foggy minded state, Spencer could tell that the nurse, despite putting on a well crafted façade, probably couldn't care less about his well being or anybody else's who happened to be in the building. It was all part of the job she was entitled to do, be nice and helpful. Spencer inwardly frowned at her, there was something odd and somewhat vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn't remember.

"How you feeling? Headache?" it was more of an observation rather than a question.

"Yes," he whispered.

His voice sounded hoarse and dry as though it hadn't been used in a long time. His throat was sore, something he had just realised, and his mouth was dry. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry, so much so it stuck to the roof of his mouth in an uncomfortable way.

"Water?"

Again, it wasn't so much as a question rather than an obvious observation of Spencer's own increasing discomfort. The plastic cup appeared close to his mouth, of which Spencer took a long, almost thankful, drink of. However, it was taken away before he was finished. He frowned up at the nurse who continued to wear a falsely cheery smile.

"Not too much dear, we don't want you getting sick on us. You're still recovering from the anesthetic," the nurse said softly setting the cup down on the bedside table.

Anesthetic? This was new news to Spencer. Anaesthetic usually meant some form of operation or procedure. Carefully trying to get his arms to work, he did a quick scan of his body, no stitching could be found on the places he could feel. Nothing was itching and/or uncomfortable. So why the anaesthetic?

Frowning slightly and trying to make sense of it, Spencer let his arms fall back to his sides, he glanced at his hands quickly. There were healing puncture wounds on the back of it, small scabs and scars along the lines of veins where previous drips had been inserted into his hand. Looking up his arm he noted fresh cotton wool buds in the crease of his elbow, stuck on with surgical tape; a recent blood test most likely? How long had he been ill for? Was he really ill and why couldn't he remember.

Again the sound of the door clicking open entered the silent room, there were more voices. Another doctor most likely. Closing his eyes again, Spencer tried to work out what the conversation was about. Him, most likely, but it was rude to talk about somebody (semi-conscious or not) when they were right in front of you because even in mild delirium he could still hear some words. The closed state of his eyes, however, had caused a wave of tiredness to cascade over him and all he could hear were short snippets of words such as 'still drowsy' and 'headaches'. Sighing quietly, Spencer gave into the impending darkness and let its heavy grasp take him. In strange moments of consciousness, he was barely aware of being wheeled down a corridor, the overhead lights hurt his eyes.

There was a soothing voice and then he felt cold, as though ice was being rubbed up his right arm. All the words being said to him became a mass of crossing prattling and an oxygen mask was placed over his face, somebody was holding his free hand as coldness continued to spread up his right arm as slid back into oblivion almost thankfully this time.

_(Why is everything so bright)_

_(It's not, just go to sleep dear)_

_(Why am I here?)_

_(All in good time, all in good time)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **Wanna know a weird feeling. Updating a story not on a computer but on a TV screen, yeah my boyfriend hooked our computer up to the TV and now everything feels weird, like shrunk but widened. Anyway that was a nice response that I got thanks for the follows, favourites and the reviews. Hope you enjoy this chapter just as much

* * *

_(Are you going to explain yet?)_

_(You're not ready yet)_

_(But that's a lie, this whole thing's a lie)_

_(You're sick Spencer, but we're here to help)_

Slowly Spencer opened his eyes, luckily for him this time he had been able to retain some of the memories of what had happened to him beforehand. Again he was in the dull white room from before and it just made Spencer's mood drop by a whole 10%. His head was pounding, his muscles ached and once again his mouth retained the awful dry feeling. What had they done to make him feel like this constantly. Was it perhaps an intensive demobilization technique? The door clicked, more buzzed and then a click. It reminded Spencer of the doors on cells at prisons. Prison? Was he a prisoner? Had he committed a crime? Killed somebody! Surely he would remember something as vital as that. He glanced lazily at the nurse who had entered the room.

"How you feeling hun? Headache?" Spencer nodded forgetting the last time and the pain that had caused.

"Understandable. Don't worry hun, you'll feel right as rain in a few hours."

Hours seemed like an eternity to Spencer, the pain behind his eyes grew with each second so to be stuck with it for a few hours seemed like hell. The nurse turned back to Spencer who had closed his eyes again attempting to block out the worst of the pain (mostly blaming the light in the room to be the cause of his discomfort). He suddenly felt a hand on the side of his face which caused his eyes to flutter open, the nurse had placed a cool hand on his cheek.

"Sorry, but you need to stay awake for now. You've been sleeping mostly for the last few weeks," weeks? this was new. How long had he been out of it. Had he really been here, where ever here was, for that long. "Now I need you to sit up for me. Can you do that?"

Letting out a small breath, Spencer pushed himself up slowly happy to finally have feeling back in his arms (numb limbs had become something he didn't enjoy). The nurse smiled at him when he was finally sitting up, she handed him a small cup that contained several different pills. 'Too many to be just pain killers ' Spencer thought before looking down at them doubtfully and then back up at the nurse who was looking at him intently, her deep green eyes boring silent holes into his skull. Sighing a nearly undetectable sigh, he swallowed them despite not knowing what they could do.

"That's good," the nurse said cheerfully. "It's been weeks since you were able to take the medications."

'Again with weeks,' Spencer thought. His vision was swimming, just like it had before. He knew what was coming next, Spencer lay back down and was quickly succumb into the darkness of sleep. His last thought being 'knew it wasn't just painkillers.'

He was walking down the streets of Las Vegas. He could feel the heat of the sun on his skin, the glare intensified by his glasses. He squinted slightly as he made his way down the street, that was when he noticed the dark red patch on the ground and the following trail.

Young curiosity edged him further to follow the trail of dark red. It lead him down the street and into a dark alley. It wasn't dark enough to stop his vision, but still dark enough to frighten the boy. Even so he continued to edge into the alley. Hairs standing on end, that was when he saw where the dark red trail ended.

A person was pinned up against a wall, blood continued to spread onto the ground as a dog, wolf, creature bore into the poor man. The boy gasped as the creature continued to rip large chunks out of its victim. The creature withdrew from its victim and turned to face the boy lunging quickly at the boy.

Spencer woke, shaking and sweating into consciousness. He looked over to see the nurse that had been in his room earlier gone and replaced with another.

"Bad dream?" the woman asked.

"A bit," Spencer replied finally finding his voice after so long.

He ran a shaking hand over his face, wiping away most of the sweat as but struggled to slow his heartbeat and breathing. It had felt so real, he could have swore he felt the sun on his arms, the coolness of the shaded alley. Glancing at the woman, he wondered how long she had been in his room. If she was even real! Spencer had recently been seeing things, nothing fanciful or even particularly strange, just things out of the corner of his eyes. Many of them being in between sleep and moments of reality, who was to say even in that moment that he was actually awake. Maybe it was still a bizarre dream, he'd wake up any moment in his own bedroom, in his own bed, in his own apartment.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" the woman asked. Spencer paused, he opened his mouth as though to say something but the words quickly withdrew and with it, Spencer's ability to talk. So he simply shook his head. "You know you'll have to talk to me eventually Spencer."

"I don't have anything to say," Spencer replied quietly, almost inaudibly.

The woman was calm, not fluttering about like the obnoxious nurses had been. Just observing, taking in the body language that Spencer was presenting, the holding back of emotions. Spencer was breathing shallowly, letting the last dregs of sleep leave him. He was glad to be rid of it, the fear from the nightmare also. He just wanted to rid himself of it, all of it.

"You'll have to talk to me, you get better," the woman said after a while.

"I'm not sick," Spencer replied, that was something he was sure of.

"Are you not? Then where are you?" the woman said.

Spencer opened his mouth as he went to reply but found he couldn't. He shut it mouth swiftly and didn't answer as he didn't know where he was and if he had been told then he had forgotten it like everything else. It was an unfair question.

"I don't know, I was never told," Spencer replied. "That was hardly a fair question."

"You see Spencer, that was a fair question. You were told where you were," the woman said. "You're in Gatehall Hospital's Psychiatric unit."

A psychiatric unit? It didn't feel right; a place that specialised in the temporary or permanent care of people with psychiatric disorders. Spencer frowned, he didn't feel the need to be here. He didn't have any serious mental disorders. He didn't feel mad. Rather exhausted, confused and a little sick but by no means mad. This wasn't right, a conspiracy.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Spencer said finally.

"If there wasn't, you wouldn't be in a hospital with an IV line in your arm, now would you," the woman replied, she was sharper than she first appeared.

Spencer, feeling mildly dizzy, lay back down and stared at the ceiling again (it was a sight he had grown accustom to seeing). he sighed but didn't look over at the woman, a physiatrist.

"This is how it will work Spencer," the woman said. "You can ask me a question and I will answer it okay."

"What's your name?" it was the first thing that came to the mildly fuzzy mind of Spencer.

"Dr Dabria Wolff," was the answer.

Spencer badly wanted answers.

_(You think I'm insane)_

_(We don't it that)_

_(That's the context though)_

_(I've never said that)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: **I think I might have killed LoveFilm. I found out that Criminal Minds is on instant so I can watch seasons 1 - 8 online. Meaning I watch them when I should be doing work at college, ah the perks of college internet, drawing and 'reference' pictures. Yeah, I don't use the internet for references heh heh. Thanks for the feed back, you are awesome!

* * *

_(It's not fair)_  
_(Why do you say that?)_  
_(Because it's true, your assumptions)_  
_(Now Spencer, we've never made assumptions)_  
_(Yes you do)_

Spencer lay still, he was silently assessing his situation. Everything he had thought before was true, he was in a hospital. A psychiatric hospital however, why? They wouldn't tell him why though, he wasn't insane. He didn't need to be here. Dr Wolff spoke again:

"Are you ready to continue?" she asked.  
"Yes, yes I am," Spencer replied somewhat unsure.

There was a silent moment and the shuffling of paper could be heard. Whatever he said would be documented, Spencer should have known that. It was a standard procedure but was also dangerous, if you said something, even the little out of context, it could very easily be used against you some other time. Spencer knew this but continued his questioning, it was the only way he was ever going to get the answers he was seeking.

"Now ask me Spencer, ask me why you're here. If you want to know that is?" Dr Wolff asked, it was a stupid question.

Reverse psychology, but it didn't affect Spencer, he already wanted to know why he was where he was.

"Why am I here?" Spencer asked, slightly annoyed by the way he was being treated.  
"Not because of a conspiracy or because anybody thinks that you're insane. That is what we call..." Spencer cut her off.  
"Paranoid ideation. Where a person may have beliefs that you are being harassed or persecuted, or beliefs involving general suspiciousness about others' motives or intent. I know, but that's not true, I'm not paranoid," Spencer snapped.

The sound of pen scratching paper could be heard in the pause between questions and answers. Paranoia? Was that why he was here. Something as simple as paranoia, something Spencer dealt with a lot in the FBI, paranoid killers. Breathing shallowly, Spencer waited for Dr Wolff to continue her Q and A session, even if it wasn't progressing as quickly as Spencer hoped, it also seemed as though she was still keeping things from him.

"I figured you would know that however the reason you are actually here is not because of paranoia but because of severe depression. That coupled with acute paranoia and auditory hallucinations," Dr Wolff stopped when she saw that Spencer's face had visibly gone the colour of the starched sheets.

One word flashed across the young man's mind and that was schizophrenia. For years Spencer had been afraid of being diagnosed with the disease. It would take him, consume him and leave him as feeble minded as his mother had become. It was something he had dreaded for years and now, most likely, they were going to give him the one diagnosis that could very easily leave him out of a job, all his hard work vaporised and leave him labelled as just another victim of mental illness.

"We thought that you could be developing schizophrenia," Dr Wolff continued one she saw Spencer's breathing failed to even out. "But the diagnosis now is severe, psychotic depression."  
"I'm not a psychotic," was Spencer's first reaction but if felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.

He didn't have schizophrenia but psychotic depression was hardly any better. It also was also a crippling mind-numbing illness with, sometimes, disastrous consequences to the sufferer.

"How do you know you're not psychotic. Psychosis is where you believe..." Dr Wolff said slowly only to be cut off again.  
"Psychosis is a mental health problems that stop the person from thinking clearly, telling the difference between reality and their imagination, and acting in a normal way. Usually coupled into two blocks. Delusions and hallucinations," Spencer said once again irritated. "So if I tell you that I believe I have been put here as part of a conspiracy then I am paranoid and I'll stay here. If I tell you that I accept that I am sick and in need of help. Then I'm staying here also?"  
"That is correct," Dr Wolff replied.

It was a lose/lose situation. Either way, Spencer was condemning himself to staying in Gatehall Hospital's Psychiatric unit. It wasn't fair. Spencer sat up again and closed his eyes in despair. He was at a loss; anything he said could be used against him, anything he did could be seen as suspicious. He knew that people with psychotic depression were often monitored closely.

"This is the point Spencer," Dr Wolff said, it sounded as though she was attempting to sound comforting. "Where you can start to get better. You've been here four weeks and this is the first proper conversation you've had. You have a brilliant mind and an entire life ahead of you."  
"Yeah, a life of medication, labelled as psychotic and mentally unstable," Spencer replied somewhat sullenly but there was also sadness mixed in.

Dr Wolff made a noise, to Spencer it sounded like a snigger.

"I never have once said you were psychotic Spencer," she paused. "You had psychotic depression, it is at a treatable level. Many people with mental illness go on to lead entirely normal lives, extraordinary ones even," Dr Wolff said, her voice attempting to be comforting again. "A life on medication? Possibly, though its too early to say. With the he possibility of one episode, be on medication for a few years and never suffer a relapse. You may need lifelong medication yes, but would that really be so bad? Diabetics take insulin, bipolar patients take lithium, it's not that different."

Spencer glanced at her. She just compared him to a diabetic and a bipolar. It was hardly the same. He went back to playing with the bedsheets and not making eye contact. He spoke quietly without looking up:

"When can I go home?" Spencer actually wanted to ask when he could go back to his version of normality. Working with the BAU, writing to his mum every day.  
'When you are better," Dr Wolff replied. "When you no longer require sedation. When you can accept that you are ill and can be trusted to take medication without being forced to. When you begin to engage with these sessions with me."  
"Am I not engaging now?" Spencer asked.

Dr Wolff sighed and put her notebook away.

"No," Dr Wolff said finally. "You are asking questions and I am answering. There is a difference. Until you can open up to me, we will continue with these sessions."

The two sat in silence for a few moments. The information that Spencer had just received was circulating his brain in a most dizzying manner. Accept that he was ill? A life on medication? No longer requiring sedation? It didn't feel right. It made him feel sick, sorry and dizzy. He was never going to 'open up', it was just something he didn't do. Spencer didn't want to be bother people with his own problems when there were hundreds of other people with lives much worse than his own.

"I am a psychiatrist and psychotherapist here Spencer," Dr Wolff said somewhat softly, breaking the silence in the process "And you can trust me. I'll be back to see you tomorrow. Try your best to start eating, or we'll have to start thinking about other options for getting some calories into you. The food here isn't exactly the best, but it's far more satisfactory than having a tube down your nose."

Dr Wolff got up to leave but turned just before reaching the door:

"Accept the situation Spencer. Contrary to many peoples belief, we are all human. We all need regular food, drink and sleep; we need other people around. All you need to do is accept all of these to be well," and she left.

_(How long?)_  
_(What was that)_  
_(I asked how long. How long until I'm better)_  
_(Sometime honey, sometime)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** This is the last update probably for the weekend 'cause I have a shit tonne of College work to do. In other news, the UK can experiance a whole years worth of seasons in one day. Sun in the morning, rain in the afternoon and friggin snow in the evening. Freaky stuff. Anyway thanks for the awesome feedback on the last few chapters, you guys are the best!

* * *

_(This is the best thing for you)_

_(Is it really)_

_(Yes Spencer, you know yourself that it is)_

_(I don't think so)_

Spencer lay still, he barely registered the nurse walking into the room. There were so many nurses, talking to him, trying to get him to communicate but it wasn't working. Being where he was weighing on his mind. Psychotic depression flashed in his mind as he watched the nurse fluttering around the room like an obnoxious butterfly. One of the odd things Spencer noticed was that the badge on the nurse's shirt wasn't held on with a pin but a plastic clip.

"Pins too dangerous?" Spencer asked, he needed something to get his mind off things.

"Could be used as weapons, just a precaution," the nurse replied with a giggle. "Rather silly I know."

The nurse turned and held out a small paper cup with small pills inside. Spencer eyed them careful before closing his eyes and turning away from the nurse. He mumbled something along the lines of 'I don't want them'. The nurse sighed and placed the small cup down on the bedside table, Spencer glanced up.

"They are to make you better. To treat your illness," the nurse said impatiently.

"No, they are to sedate me. They don't make me better because I'm not sick," Spencer replied, he sounded like a child.

"Spencer when are you going to realise that you need help," the nurse said irritably.

Spencer sighed, the same words over again on constant repeat. He was ill. He needed medication to help him. He needed to accept he was ill. The medication was making him better. This, to Spencer, was all a lie. He was sick of darkness, he was sick of forgetting and he was sick of being told things that weren't true. However, he wasn't sick. Not in the body, not in the head. Why did they keep telling him that he was. Spencer sat up again and pulled his knees up to his chest.

"Why do you insist on it?" Spencer asked.

"Without it the depression and the anxiety return. Don't you remember?" the nurse asked.

Spencer closed his eyes as an image of him shaking, crying and unable to fight the feeling of panic from deep within him suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. Feeling as though he wanted to tear his skin off to relieve some of the pressure, crack open his skull and escape the dark feeling. He also remembered screaming out in panic, people running, the sick feeling rising in his throat, being held down and the spread of medication sending into a spiralling pit of unwanted oblivion. Spencer buried his head in his knees.

"Do you want to end up like that again?" the nurse replied

"No," Spencer mumbled, holding back tears.

"Then take the medication," the nurse said holding it again.

Spencer took the small cup and swallowed the pills dry, just wanting to get it over with. The nurse patted Spencer carefully on the shoulder, of which he flinched and instinctively away from the touch but the nurse didn't even noticed the reaction.

"Good. Now how about something to eat. Hm?" she asked.

Food? How long had it been since he'd had a proper meal. Spencer mental note of his body, he'd always been skinny but now everything seemed like it was stretched over his bones like an odd layer of silicone. The bones of his elbows jutted out, and his upper arms had lost all of the little muscle that they used to have. It had obviously been a while, even so Spencer still didn't feel like eating. He lay back down and turn away from the nurse, he head the click of the door and a cool breeze enveloped him before Spencer fell asleep once again.

-0-

When Spencer opened his eyes again he noticed the awfully familiar shape of Dr Wolff sitting by his bedside, a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. Quickly closing his eyes again, Spencer hoped she didn't notice that he had woken up.

"It's very hard to fake being asleep, I thought you knew that," Dr Wolff stated. She already sounded exasperated.

Reluctantly Spencer opened his eyes and sure enough, the long skirt, starched shirt and tight jacket meant it was, in fact, Dr Wolff sitting by his bed ready to document anything he said. No doubt she'd write down that he pretended to be asleep so that he could avoid talking to her. That was Spencer's legitimate reason for pretending in the first place, he didn't like Dr Wolff and sure enough, she probably didn't like Spencer much either. He was considered a difficult patient, it was unfair to say so however.

"You already know how I am, why do you insist on coming back?" Spencer asked avoiding all eye contact.

"When you begin to engage in these sessions Spencer, until you open up. I have to come and talk to you," Dr Wolff replied.

Spencer sighed, he forgot about that. The ridiculous notion that Spencer had to open up to a person he didn't know well or particularly like was both unfair and a little weird. All forms of therapy was weird, one person talking to another person who they didn't know and expect to tell them everything that happened to them, how they feel and so on. It wasn't an inviting prospect to Spencer, never was and never would be.

"How are you feeling Spencer?" Dr Wolff asked.

"Standard question, why do you really care?" Spencer replied bitterly, already sick of Dr Wolff and her questions.

"I believe that it's normally considered a polite question to ask," Dr Wolff replied.

Spencer glowered through the hair that had fallen into his eyes. He didn't want to deal with Dr Wolff today but he was being forced to engage with her until he accept that he was sick. Sitting up, Spencer continued the grudging conversation with Dr Wolff.

"Why so angry Spencer?" D Wolff asked.

"You're not the one being held here against your will, now are you?" Spencer snapped.

He never meant to snap at Dr Wolff it just happened, he was tired, annoyed and just wanted to be left alone to piece together his thoughts. He didn't want to be bothered by somebody he didn't want to talk too. He didn't want to be drugged ever four hours. He wanted to be able to stay awake and not feel sick. Spencer just wanted to be away from where he was.

"Spencer, are you listening?" Dr Wolff asked.

"No," Spencer replied honestly.

"Why not?"

"I want to remember, I want to be left alone. I don't want to talk, I'm not sick and I hate it here. That's why I'm not listening," was Spencer's answer.

The snap of Dr Wolff's book was music to Spencer's ear. It meant she was no longer logging what he said, she stood up and looked down at Spencer.

"If you cooperate, you will remember but if you don't then you'll be here even longer, it's your choice," Dr Wolff said.

Spencer refused to answer any more of her questions and since the conversation became so strained that eventually Dr Wolff just left Spencer to what he wanted. To be alone.

_(I hate it here)_

_(So you've said)_

_(Then let me leave)_

_(I can't do that Spencer. I'm sorry)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: **I said I wouldn't update but I managed to finish my college work. You would be surprised how hard trying to fit Supernatural, Being Human and Criminal Minds references into one drawing is. We had to draw something that represented what we liked on an emotional factor. Here is chapter 5 and afterwards everything written will be by me so there might be a shift...a considerable shift in writing style. Anyway, thanks again for the feedback, this is now my most followed story. It's weird plus my second most viewed. It's weird...

* * *

_(No more, please)_  
_(It's to help you get better)_  
_(No, I don't want it)_  
_(Don't you want to get better)_

The next morning brought yet another nurse and another dose of pills. Spencer didn't even look up, he just lay still, his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. He didn't want to be drowsy any more, he was tired of not being in control of his mind. It wasn't normal and it made him feel sick.

"I'm not taking them," Spencer said emotionlessly.  
"Why not?" the nurse asked.

Spencer rolled over to face the nurse. It wasn't often he felt actual hatred for a person, she was just doing her job however her job entailed drugging somebody who didn't want to be drugged and forcing them to forget things they didn't wish to forget. After a full minute of glaring at the nurse, she left and Spencer rolled back over to face the wall. He pulled the pillow over his head, he wanted to block out the thoughts that were circling his head and only focus on things he wanted to focus on. The door clicked open again.

"I hear you're not keen on your medication?" Spencer let out a loud sigh, Dr Wolff just couldn't stay away.  
"Would you be if you were in my position?" Spencer asked.  
"That's two different questions. Would I take the medication if I had your condition? Yes, I would. Would I want to take the medication if I was Spencer Reid and hadn't accepted the fact that I was ill? No, of course not," Dr Wolff commented.

Spencer sat up, Dr Wolff had become increasingly annoying every time he was forced to engage in her drawling therapy sessions. Dr Wolff continued to try and talk to Spencer who, equally, continued to ignore Dr Wolff.

"You're angry Spencer; aren't you? This continuous ignorance is clearly a result of anger, why don't you tell me what's wrong," Dr Wolff asked.  
"Because I don't want to be sedated to the point that I can't remember anything!" Spencer yelled. "I don't want to forget anything else."

Angry tears were gathering in Spencer's eyes. Frustration and anguish was building and he hated it. All he wanted was answers, but any time he asked all he was told was that it was for his own good, that he was sick and needed help in getting better.

"Don't you want to get better and to get home?" Dr Wolff asked eyeing Spencer.  
"I am getting better. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm talking, I thought that was the deal," Spencer cried in anguish.  
Dr Wolff sighed.

"You are progressing through a treatment course. Stopping now would be detrimental. Two more treatments to complete the course of six, and the we'll discuss it again."  
"But there's nothing wrong with me!" Spencer snapped, anger flared in his eyes.

Dr Wolff let out a short, sharp breath:

"That, Spencer, sounds a lot like paranoia to me which, as I stated before, is a symptom of your illness."

He fought, of course he did, there was no way he wasn't going to. It took six of them to hold him down in the end, they had to sedate him and then he was waking up again in a strange room, head aching, mouth dry, trying desperately to work out where he was, and with tears of frustration sliding down his face, unable even to work out what he was frustrated about.

-0-

When Dr Wolff came to visit again the next day Spencer didn't say anything, he buried his head in his knees, ignored the enquiries.

"Do you remember who I am?" Dr Wolff asked finally after her questions lead nowhere.  
"Yes, you're the bitch who wiped my mind once again," Spencer muttered, he never was one to really speak ill of people but he was really sick of the doctor.  
"An interesting turn of phrase but it's nice to see that you remember something," Dr Wolff commented.

Spencer went back to having his head buried in his knees and muttered a mildly muted 'but very little else'. Sighing seemed to have become the only way that Dr Wolff communicated with Spencer. It was going to be a very long hour. Spencer had to admire the woman's commitment though, he supposed she'd have high tolerance for people not talking when they were meant to or just not talking at all like Spencer was.

"Why don't you just go away and leave me in peace?" he asked finally.  
"Because thats not how this works," Dr Wolff replied.  
"How does it work? No, wait, how about I tell you," Spencer snapped. "I tell you the deep and troubled workings of my mind, you tell me that I am psychotic and deluded, and every piece of information that I give you earned me a few more days in here and another session of blankness and blackness fun. How am I doing? Close?"

Dr Wolff shut her notebook, she didn't write in it often and when she did it was probably more notes on how to keep Spencer in for another week.

"Are you always this angry?" Dr Wolff asked. "Or is it just being in here."  
"What do you think," Spencer replied thickly.

The last outburst of emotion had sent Spencer slightly over the edge, he lay down as hot tears of frustration and sadness rolled down his face onto the bedsheets. He turned away from Dr Wolff, pulling the pillow over his head, ignoring all the psychiatrists attempt at conversation, concentrating on slowing his breathing, willing himself towards sleep. Eventually he head the door buzz and click as Dr Wolff left the room, Spencer slept but didn't dream.

_(I feel sick)_  
_(It's a side effect of the medication)_  
_(When can I get out of here)_  
_(When you're ready)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Note: **Sorry about the wait. I was out of town visiting my brothers son (he's so cute) and then it was my 19th birthday so I was spending time with my family so yeah, I got caught up in life. I want to quickly thank Lyndsey, who is my amazing sister-in-law, for helping with the medical mumbo-jumbo in this story. Anyway, on with the show

* * *

_(There's nothing here than can hurt you)_  
_(You've told me that already)_  
_(So why don't you believe me)_  
_(Because you've lied to me before)_

He slept...almost. Dimly aware of people coming and going in his room, it was a little distracting. He woke some time later to find a tray of semi-cold food and a drink on the table beside his bed. He ignored the food but drank the glass of water instead, and feigned sleep when the buzz and click of the door indicated the arrival of a nurse in the small room - a different one this time, night staff, he presumed. It was dark outside already, how had that happened? Days and nights seemed to be merging into one undisputable blob.

He had never slept so much in his life, not even when he was ill. Now he was lucky to manage four or five hours consciousness a day. He needed to stop taking some of that medication, stop diluting his brain into its confused state. Give himself a chance to work out the best way to proceed. He couldn't do it like this, his mind was barely functioning. Something he was not accustom to.

The nurse was standing next to him, her arms folded across her uniform, waiting for the young male to open his eyes. When he didn't cooperate she cleared her throat loudly, waited, then chuckled.

"I know you're not asleep," she snapped.

He rolled over to look at her. She was older this nurse, early fifties maybe. She reminded him of a matron at old boarding schools in books. This one didn't look like she would be convinced by any means of reverse psychology or bargaining that had worked on other nurses. She seemed hardened beyond her years, scarily so.

"You need to take your medication now," she said, her face set in a frown. "If you don't want to eat then that's fine with me."

Spencer inspected the pot of tablets. Seven instead of the usual six. The brunette looked up, a look in his eyes that yelled 'what'.

"Sleeping tablet," she told him in answer to his questioning look. "It's to stop you lying awake all night worrying."

Spencer frowned and looked down at the seventh little tablet. Was this really what he had been reduced to? Timely medication to stop him from panic attacks and prevent depression. It was not the sort of thing he'd ever imagined himself ever needing. He'd seen and heard of many people in the same situation but he never imagined himself one of them. It didn't fit, nothing quite connected anymore.

He considered the woman in front of him. She looked as if she had been doing this job for years, decades even. She had undoubtedly seen generations of disturbed children, teenagers and adults, and had no doubt seen every variation of medication avoidance possible to be able to be done in a psych unit. Certainly not the one to start practicing on then. Reluctantly Spencer swallowed the tablets dry.

"Thank you," she said, an unwelcome edge to her voice.

Frustration at the delay? Maybe. Irritation at his attitude. Probably. Or, perhaps, just a calculated way of letting him know that she was aware of what he was thinking about the situation. Either way, it was a little disturbing the looks he was being given. More than a little even.

"Do you want anything to eat?" she was asking. "You won't be able to have any breakfast in the morning, so this is your last chance."

He looked down and shook his head rather slowly.

"No...no thank you," Spencer said quietly.

There was something about this woman's demeanor that demanded respect and manners from anybody who was speaking to her. A sense of authority.

"Do you want to talk about anything? The medication perhaps? Or maybe why you don't want to talk your medication?" she asked.  
"I just want to sleep - please," Spencer said thickly.

She checked his blood pressure, adjusted his pillows and finally left him with a conciliatory squeeze of his shoulder. Strange how he was usually a little uncomfortable when it came to physical contact. Thinking about times, some from recent years and some from when he was younger. He swallowed, pushing any dark memories back into the locked up area of his mind. Where those thoughts belonged. Sometimes he, himself, didn't know what was locked away in his mind. Recently he couldn't find his way into it clearly, could recollect things as well. There was pain in there (that he knew) and terror and that constricting, consuming panic that he so desperately didn't want to escape. Best to leave it that way. Leave it where it was, door locked, chained and barred. Best not to think, best not to feel. The sleeping tablets and the sedatives slowly crept over him, and yet again he was tumbling into a dreamless but uncomfortable sleep.

-0-

If he was aware at all the next morning he awoke in his room, any memory of it was obliterated by the unwanted medication. One moment he was falling asleep in his room, the next he was waking up with only his aching head telling and the sick feeling. Something, however, was telling him that it was all finished. All over. Now he was coming off the medication

Dr Wolff was there, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, jotting down notes in a document file. His file, Spencer presumed quietly, but so thick already. What on earth were they finding to write down about him? She looked up at him and smiled. It was a stiff uncomfortable smile.

"Awake? That's good. Are you hungry?" there was hardly a pause in the sentence, if it could be classes as one.

He realised with surprise that he was, and accepted the food - soup, bread, a glass of milk, gladly. He still only managed half the bowl, but it was the first time that he could remember actively wanted food since he had been here. Maybe, he grudgingly accepted, the medication was doing its job, but at what cost?

Frowning a little he sorted through his memories to see what remained. He remembered waking up here, remembered patchy parts of his conversations with staff and Dr Wolff almost on a daily basis.

A new face appeared in his room later that afternoon; it was still light outside but the quality of the light was changing, evening was approaching. A woman in her mid thirties, well-dressed, almost too well-dressed. Too much lipstick, too fresh for this time of the day, she must have been reapplying it regularly, but why? Who was she trying to impress in this building of mad and depressed teenagers, mainly female nurses and the odd psychiatrist? Intriguing. A small, almost forgotten of his mind needed to solve the puzzle, the remainder told him that it just didn't matter.

"Hello there Spencer," she said, in what she said, in what no doubt she considered to be a sympathetic tone (which it wasn't). "How are you feeling today, hm?" without waiting for a reply she continued, "My name is Amanda."

What was she, a waitress? No surname to be heard of? He was too busy being mildly irritated by, once again, being treated like an idiot to be able to focus on what Amanda was saying. She was looking at him expectantly. Had she asked him a question? He rubbed the side of his face, confused yet again at his mind's stubborn refusal to do its job. Hoping that she would pick up on the signals and not require him to put it into words, but she didn't. He didn't like this woman, he decided. She was showing every sign of insensitivity and worse still stupidity.

"I'm sorry, I missed all of that," he said quietly, internally ashamed about being forced to admit his own faults. "I got your name, but nothing after that."  
"Oh you poor thing," Amanda said, her voice lacking the sympathy it should have carried.

What was he five? He didn't like fake sympathy, he didn't like being treated like a child and he didn't like being lied to or not having questions answered. He definitely didn't like this woman, but yet again he had tuned out and missed it. Sitting up, he squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"I can't understand anything you're saying," he said, panicking slightly now, these feelings had never happened before. "I can't concentrate, is that from the medication?"  
"Perhaps," she said vaguely. "It doesn't matter, I'll be back again tomorrow. It was only meant to be a flying visit to introduce myself."

Spencer wanted to ask her to get a nurse. He wanted to tell her that he was starting to panic, that he could feel it bubbling, but the words wouldn't come and he didn't want to tell this woman anything at all. Instead he sat back in the bed, eyes closed, trying to still his breathing, trying to fix himself, trying to arrange his memories past the whispering voices. Past the feeling that they had really broken something in him this time, that some piece of wiring was gone that could never been replaced.

The nurse came back into the room, took one look at him and asked,

"What's wrong Spencer?"

If she could see it why couldn't that Amanda woman?

"I can't think," he said dejectedly. "I can't concentrate, I couldn't understand a word that woman was saying. Whats happening to me? This has never happened before!"  
"Don't panic dear, its the anaesthetic not the medication that usually does that. It'll wear off in twenty-four hours or there after. Besides," she bent down close to Spencer and whispered in his ear elusively. "That woman has that effect on most people. I for once cannot concentrate on a word she ever says, I just get fixated on that ridiculous lipstick she wears.'

Spencer smiled a little. This was more like it. He liked that nurse (Charley her name tag said) he realised, she treated him like a person, not like a child or a patient. The panic was starting to subside, maybe his brain wasn't completely destroyed after all.

"Do you need something? Lorazepam?"  
"Which one's that?" Spencer asked

He knew that it must be a sedative, but he needed to know which tablet was which so he could work out which ones to stop taking and what would the do the most damage.

"The oval blue one. Its a sedative in mostly high doses but in smaller doses it makes you more relaxed and can take away some of the panic. You've been having pericyazine as well, the little white one, but you're not due any more of that yet," Charley explained.

Interesting.

"Okay then," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

He didn't like taking the medication, it made him feel wrong, and the panic was still there, barely controlled to a minimum. Always threatening to overwhelm him at some point or another. His hands, when he lifted the off the bedclothes were still shaking. A plan, he needed a plan, he needed to be able to think, but not now, not today. Today he would sleep, and let the anesthetic wear off. Tomorrow he would work out how to get out of here. A plan of action.

_(Don't panic)_  
_(I'm not panicking)_  
_(Yes you are, please calm down)_  
_(But I can't, I just can't. Nothing helps)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Note:** Wow, that was some crazy response on the last chapter and I cannot thank you enough. That really made me feel amazing! So for that, here is a nice long chapter and I'm so sorry if it drags but I'm still finding my feet writing for Reid but I think I'm getting better...am I? You tell me.

* * *

_(Are you okay)_

_(I'm not crazy)_

_(That's not the question I asked)_

_(But that's what I heard)_

The next day brought an uncharacteristically early Dr Wolff to Spencer's bedside. Before he had even had the time to do much other than struggle into blessed consciousness, take medication and eat his breakfast. The medication had to go, he knew, but he hadn't yet had a chance to work out which ones, or in what order. He needed to do this scientifically, one tablet at a time, work out the effect that each one had on him, so that he knew which ones he could stop taking.

Disposal was also going to be an issue. Flushing them down the toilet seemed to be obvious answer to it but were there cameras around? He was fairly sure there were cameras in his room, people watching him most of the time, although he hadn't yet managed to identify exactly where they were. Hidden from view most likely. For today however, he contented himself with palming two of the tablets, just to see if he could get away with it. Which he could. Hiding them in his cheek was also an option (slight distasteful albeit) but the way the nurses watched him to check that he swallowed made him think that trying to keep them in his cheek with his tongue would be detected.

An hour later he took out the tablets that he had palmed and hidden under his pillow and inspected them. He was starting to feel panicky, but both tablets looked the same. Small white ones. One must be the pericyazine that Charley had talked about, but what was the other? Until he worked out which was which, it was safer to take both, otherwise they might realise what he was doing. He just hoped the cameras wouldn't pick it up. He did a reverse palm technique to swallow them, wary of being seen with them openly.

Stupid really, he should have just palmed one. Tomorrow he would know much better. However, sadly, it was another day of potential freedom lost to failure.

Dr Wolff had a thick sheet of paper with her, which he put down on Spencer's table.

"Depression score," he said. "Well actually it's a manic-depression score. I thought we could see where you are on it later on. If you're feeling up to it that is."

Spencer shrugged hardly paying any attention, he really couldn't care less.

"Are you going to talk to me today? Hm?" Dr Wolff asked.

"Do I have much of a choice?" Spencer sighed.

"Not really I'm afraid, Dr Wolff admitted, she look a little sorry.

Spencer sighed, something he'd come accustom to doing so over the period of time he'd been locked up.

"Who was the woman who came in yesterday?" Spencer asked eventually."The one with lipstick?"

"Amanda Shaw?" so she did have a surname after all. "She's a clinical psychologist. What was your opinion of her."

"She treated me as though I was a child

Dr Wolff chuckled and shot a semi-smile towards the brunette

"You were still pretty out of it from the anesthetic. Perhaps it was a bad time for a visit to be honest. Though, maybe you were acting like a child and you don't remember."

Spencer bit back the retort about not remembering anything because of the constant wave of heavy dosage of medication. He sighed a little and looked over to Dr Wolff with dull eyes.

"Maybe so, but I'm not one, and I don't appreciate being treated like one. It's never really happened before so…" he trailed off.

Dr Wolff nodded, the more you know.

"Fair enough, I'll feed that back to her. She's not been with us for all that long; she's still finding her feet here, be nice too her. That and she doesn't really understand about your mental capabilities," Dr Wolff confirmed.

So she was new to everything. Interesting.

"Who is she?" Spencer asked. "Do I really have to see her?"

"I just told you, she's a clinical psychologist here. She's going to do some CBT work with you; that's

"Cognitive behavioral therapy. I know what it means," Spencer cut in. "You don't need to explain it to me."

"Of course. Well, she's going to to try and give you some strategies to attempt to prevent the depression from returning once you're well again.

Spencer made a motion, between a shrug and a frown. He didn't really want to have all of it spelled out to him in such a way that it made him feel incapacitated.

"There is very good evidence that it's better than medication for preventing recurring episodes," Dr Wolff continued. "And as you've already informed me that you don't want to be on medication for the rest of your life I was the one who made the suggestion that you work with her."

Spencer flashed Dr Wolff a face.

"Why?," Spencer snapped furiously.

"Because you're doing psychotherapy with me and that's different. Or rather you're meant to be doing psychotherapy with me. Currently you're just arguing with me and attempting to turn me into an information mule. Besides, it's healthier to work with several people. It gives you different perspectives to work with," Dr Wolff snapped back.

Spencer could feel anger bubbling inside him. His usually calm exterior was cracking away little by little, day by day. All the years of being able to hide small details about how he felt, all of it was going to waste and for what? Because a doctor made him feel...insecure and unsure.

"So you can all sit around a table and talk about me. Is that what you do? Once, twice a week maybe? What do you call them, case conferences, team meetings?" Spencer demanded.

"Team meetings twice a week. They are important. We also have brief handovers with the nursing staff every morning," Dr Wolff said, she looked and sounded as frustrated as Spencer felt.

"And what do you say about me in these team meetings? Anything I should know about?"

Dr Wolff sighed and shut the case file of Spencer's, she looked the brunette in the eye for a moment. No smiles, just looking. It was as though she was looking for something that was hidden in them. Maybe she was. People believed that the eyes were the windows to the soul, maybe Dr Dabria Wolff believe it too.

"What do you think that we say about you?" she asked calmly.

"That I'm difficult. That I refuse to talk. Am I right?" Spencer asked.

Dr Wolff stayed silent, dark eyes shifting to the left slightly.

"Am I right?" Spencer asked a little sadly this time.

Dr Wolff sighed and shook her head. Spencer frowned and looked back to the bedsheets.

"Why are you so bothered by what is said at meetings? By what anybody here thinks about you?" she asked. "After all, is it not in your best interest to not know what we are saying about you? We might say that you perhaps struggling to engage. No doubt, we might say that you were still experiencing significant depressive symptoms but it's interesting that you think that you come across as difficult. Is that something people have said about you before?"

Spencer shot her a glance.

"I don't remember," he admitted quietly.

He didn't think he'd ever been described as brilliant. Freaky, sure. Odd, once or twice. Discerning and confusing had been thrown around by several people. Never difficult though, it was a different story when he explained things in a little too much detail, because then he knew himself that it was simply his own mind that worked at a mile a second. Difficult was something that was escaping.

"Why is that? Do you think you're difficult?" Dr Wolff pressed.

"I think...I think it's because I won't live up to other people's expectations of me. Everybody expects so much of people," Spencer replied quietly.

Dr Wolff chuckled.

"Now you and I both know that isn't true. You've probably far exceed expectations. I don't know. However, you can't stop yourself thinking and that's partially the problem. That's also why you've needed such hefty doses of sedation before now. It's to stop your brain overworking itself," Dr Wolff admitted.

Overworking, an odd turn of phrase. Spencer had never considered it before, name because he never needed too.

'So what do I do then?" Spencer asked quietly.

"We'll talk, I and Amanda will help you get through this Spencer, it's all for the best," Dr Wolff said gently as she could.

Spencer was silent.

"Give yourself time to think about it," Dr Wolff said. "Try to remember. Anything at all. We'll talk about it again in a few days time. Because I don't believe that you're difficult. Because of your intelligence," she paused. "I think that you feel lost without the constant reminder that you're above other people in levels of intelligence. You're trying to conform to normality and I think we both know that you're unable to do that."

Frowning a little, Spencer looked over to Dr Wolff who was smiling a very small smile.

"So you don't think that I'm difficult?" Spencer asked timidly.

"The very fact that you're asking that makes it rather unlikely. The fact that you're cooperating with me right now, is proving something and I don't think you notice what it is yet," Dr Wolff said quietly and a little inwardly.

"What's that?" Spencer asked.

"It'll come you you. Look, Spencer, I'm certain that you're not entirely sure what the rules of normality are or how you're meant to conform to them. A lot of people don't. For a long time I didn't either," Dr Wolff paused and leaned forward in her chair. "It's a little too soon to start sticking labels on you Spencer, and I, personally, don't believe that labels are very helpful in any given situation. People are individuals, even the ones who try to deny it."

Spencer sighed, he still felt lost and confused.

"We still haven't agreed that I'm ill," Spencer said finally.

"Haven't we?" Dr Wolff said with a smirk. "We've agreed that without proper medication, without sufficient treatment, you experience anxiety, panic and depression. Now tell me; is that not mental illness?"

Spencer sighed deeply and looked to the wall, dark eyes closing for a little longer than a standard blink. It really couldn't be. It just couldn't.

"Yes, but...I never thought," Spencer said slowly, the words weren't coming to him

"You never thought that it would happen to you?" Dr Wolff finished. "Why, because you're smarter than most. Or is there some or undisclosed reason I should know about?" there was a brief pause filled by a sigh. "Even the greatest people, smartest people. World leaders even. They can all fall under. Stress just becomes a little too much."

"But not to me," Spencer snapped. "I know...I know how to deal with it."

Dr Wolff sighed.

"Even you Spencer. You really need to accept that now," Dr Wolff said almost mutely. "Your symptoms on admission were not consistent with a drug psychosis, and after all had it had been drugs, the symptoms would have more than likely worn off at least by now."

"But I'm still being given drugs," Spencer snapped, the confusion returning.

"Yes, but drugs out of the same packets as all the other inpatients in this institution," Dr Wolff snapped back. Probably unintentionally. "Their symptoms could be all be linked to drug intoxication too. It's a possibility. Look, Spencer, all of them came in here with symptoms which are all responding to the drugs exactly as we predicted. The drugs are making them better, the drugs are making you better. No-one is making you ill deliberately. This is not rational, this is paranoia.'

Spencer considered. The same medication as all the others. Interesting. Could his medication be switched before it was brought to his room? He didn't want to ask, but he needed the information.

"It's all the same medication," Dr Wolff was saying patiently. How did he know what he was thinking? 'There is no way that anyone could switch it before it gets to you. The nurses looking after you take your drug chart, go to the cupboard, get the tablets out of the pots, put them in the medication pot and bring them in to you. The nurses that you know and are starting to trust. Charley and the night staff. Do you honestly believe every single one of them are on this? Because that's the only way that you could be being drugged. Through them."

Spencer shook his head.

'You've been here over a month Spencer, now is the time to start accepting your situation. Nothing is going to change that but yourself," Dr Wolff sighed. "You really don't want to be stuck here forever."

Spencer sighed, the same words 'you need to get better', 'you're ill', 'you need help' it was all the same to brunette. No matter who the person was, their words were meaningless to him. Falling on deaf ears, ones that were not wanting to accept the situation that was so out of his control that it terrified him.

"I'm a psychiatrist Spencer, remember. Your thought processes, that you aren't ill. That somebody has drugged you. They aren't rational. Nobody has poisoned or had you drugged into this state," Dr Wolff paused as for dramatic effect. "I've told you. It's simply not possible to cause your symptoms with the aid of drugs. The sooner that you accept that, the sooner that you can start to get better."

"And if I don't you'll put me back on that medication?" Spencer asked sullenly.

Dr Wolff sighed and shook her head

"Not if you don't need it. If you need more however, I would rather prefer it to be your choice rather than somebody elses. However, medication and therapy is a better choice as of the current situation. The medication was get you to a point where you could take other medication and engage with the therapy," she ended the sentence with a semi-smile.

"Am I engaging now?" Spencer asked timidly.

"Yes, you are," Dr Wolff replied. "Surprisingly well. It really helps that you want to know, that you naturally examine the evidence for and against theories, that is what therapy is all about."

Spencer paused and considered an idea for a moment.

"Can...can I have a pen and some paper?" Spencer asked before his confidence failed him. "So that I can write things down as when and if I remember them?"

"Can you be trusted with them?" Dr Wolff asked.

Spencer gawked at her confusedly.

"What do you expect me to do with them. Shove the pen up my nose and bang my head on the bedside table to attempt to self-lobotomise myself?" Spencer snapped at the stupidity of the question. "I would never do that."

Dr Wolff half laughed.

"Then yes, you may have a pencil and some paper."

"And some books?" Spencer asked, trying his luck.

"If you want. There are some in the library but it's not a very good selection. Anything particular you want?" Dr Wolff asked.

"Greek, I like Greek Mythology," Spencer replied quietly, inwardly happy.

"I'll take a look and see what I can do," Dr Wolff replied.

"Thank you," it was barely above a whisper.

A small smile crept along the doctors lips before clearing her throat and continuing with her professional motif.

"Do you want to look at this depression score today with me, or shall I leave it with you for another time?" Dr Wolff asked.

"What is it?" Spencer asked doubtfully looking at the paper.

"It's a way of quantifying depressive and manic symptoms. It is basically just a series of statements. You need to tick the ones that you feel apply mostly to you."

Spencer took the proffered sheaf of papers and looked at the list. It made uncomfortable reading and made Spencer's stomach drop to a new low in the hospital

"I thought you didn't believe in labelling people?" Spencer snapped defensively looking up from the paper.

"I don't," Dr Wolff replied. "But this is a useful way of assessing progress.'

"And of working out if I'm bipolar," Spencer muttered, Dr Wolff either didn't hear or ignored the brunette so Spencer continued looking at a few more of the statements. "I can't. I really can't, not today."

"Why're you finding this all so upsetting? Hm?" Dr Wolff asked.

'I..I have no idea," Spencer replied a little bewildered. "I suppose it's because...I don't like seeing my feelings being written down in black and white on paper."

"Perhaps that's because it proves that you really are ill?" Dr Wolff finished.

Spencer sighed.

"Possibly," he murmured quietly.

He could feel it, rising up from inside him. Deep the pit of his stomach. Black, writhing, consuming him with endless misery. Panic and fear in close pursuit behind it. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing which had suddenly jerked into hard and uneven. A hand on his shoulder, reassuring, comforting did nothing for him and so he kept his eyes closed.

'You've done well today Spencer. I'll get Charley to bring you some medication to help you right now. We'll continue this tomorrow. Amanda Shaw is coming to see you this afternoon but please, do not shut her out. She means well."

Buzz, click went the door as Charley came into the room. How had Dr Wolff summoned her? The call button? He hadn't even heard it go, or perhaps had she been listening the whole

time to the conversation. Were there listening devices as well as cameras? He opened his eyes to check the footsteps were hers. Dr Wolff was still sitting by his bedside and Charley was on the other side with the little paper pot of medication. Two oblong blue pills (Lorazepam she had told him yesterday) Spencer liked them. They helped. He swallowed them quickly, almost gratefully and lay back down, waiting for them to kick in. Dr Wolff was saying something to him, but he couldn't register it. Not that he cared either. There was just the cloudiness, thick, black and, somewhat welcoming, dragging him down deep and threatening to close over his head. Then the blessed release of sleep came.

_(You say this is working)_

_(It is and you're doing really well)_

_(I'm not, you just want to label me)_

_(We really don't, you're making up facts again)_


End file.
